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Thursday, April 17, 2008
NEIGHBORS: Butch Needs Reprogramming
By Rosie Schnieder/
Mountain View Telegraph
Dogs and humans share a long fabled history. Canines all over the world share a unique history as partners in endeavors that include search-and-rescue, leading the blind and even soldiering in times of war. Dogs of the East Mountains are noble, courageous and in some cases self-sacrificing.
Of course those are other people’s dogs. The closest my dog Butch, a little brown Australian cattle dog, ever came to courageous behavior was the day he left me a little present on the living room rug.
The ugly truth is that this cur of mine is capable of much darker deeds than your average canine. In fact, far from being Mountain Woman’s best friend, he is, I am convinced, a murderous alien life pod sent here on a mission to drive me insane or worse.
The problems really began a couple of months ago when I decided to take Butch for a walk. He saw me with the leash in my hand and quickly initiated a snarling, fang dripping, retreat, but I cornered him by the microwave and hooked him up. Anticipating a struggle, I had wrapped the leash around my forearm and eased the screen door open. Next thing I remember is being yanked down the front porch stairs like a sack of sleepy potatoes. I came back to consciousness lying on my back, staring at the sky.
Butchie had made his escape.
When I stood up and squinted across the unfenced part of the yard, I saw what I thought was a really big, mean, nasty boxer hovering suspiciously — fur to fur— over my poor little brown boy dog. It looked like one of the worst dog-on-dog crimes ever witnessed by a human. So like any overprotective Doggy Mommy, I sprinted across the front yard and broke up their little party that I had mistaken for a life-and-death struggle. Later, I tried to explain to Butch that I shouldn’t be blamed for mistaking a romantic interlude for a near fatal trouncing by that big, mean boxer. I said I had no idea that he was gay, (not that there is anything wrong with gay dogs) but that the incident did explain his namesake. He just snarled and went away to lick his emotional wounds, or what ever dogs lick when their pride is hurt.
But the damage to our relationship had been done, and now he just wants me dead. I know because the other day, I found a chew stick that he’s been whittling down into a mean looking shank. I came home the other day and caught him watching endless reruns of his favorite movie, “Cujo Meets Chucky.” I had no sooner extracted the VHS tape from the machine when this god awful smell seeped out from under the couch. Unaware of the extent of Butchie’s anger, I lay down on my back to get a look at the source of the odor.
Talk about a serious miscalculation: In a nanosecond, woman’s best friend sauntered over to me, all innocent like, and proceeded to try to sit on my face. That’s when I discovered the real source of the odor. Finally his evil intent was clear: My dog meant to restrain me, and then gas me. I had become a prisoner in my own Guantanamo.
Well, all I have to say is that if he wants to go to mat … IT’S ON, BABY!
From the safety of my perch, high atop the kitchen counter, I have formulated a plan evil in its perfection.
Tonight while Butchie sleeps with the aid of doggy tranquilizers, I will creep into the living room and install tiny little doggy manacles directly in front of the TV. Tomorrow morning I will seize him while he is still groggy, tape his eyelids open and force him to watch an endless loop of “Lady and the Tramp.”
Ah yes, The Tramp! Now there’s a fine upstanding hetero dog a Doggy Mommy could be proud of.
Neighbors is a lighthearted weekly column written by people in the community. If you would like to contribute to Neighbors, contact Rory McClannahan at 823-7102 or online at editor@mvtelegraph.com.>
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